From Pitiful to Piteous
by Commander
Summary: Wealth. Power. Happiness. Christmas. And dimes. Magica de Spell understands few of these things, and has none. Maybe, then, Scrooge McDuck has good reason to pity her. One shot.


(AN: Hey hey, it's my first Christmas-based fanfiction! Never really thought I'd write one—seeing as it usually takes me about two months to write something nowadays… but when I got this idea, I thought I'd give it a go. It's nothing special, but I hope you all like it. And I appreciate all comments and critiques, so please review. Oh, and Merry Christmas! (Or Happy Holidays, or Wonderful Winter, or whatever you celebrate.)

_DuckTales _and all related characters belong to Disney.)

O.o.O

If she weren't so close to victory, she would have been noticing how blasted _cold _it was.

But no, during her entire trek to McDuck mansion, laughing maniacally the whole way there, she never once took note of the chill in the air, of the snow swirling around her in an almost apprehensive dance. She never once thought of wearing warmer clothes, clothes that she rarely needed in her usual home, all those thousands of miles away.

No, she did not notice the cold… until she finally caught sight of him through the window, sitting by the fireplace laughing warmly with his three precocious little nephews, a wide-eyed little girl sitting on his lap, all of them sipping hot chocolate, as other family and friends stood around the fire as well, happy Christmas smiles on their faces.

It was revolting.

"I expected no less from you, Scrooge!" Magica laughed to herself, although softly, and pressed herself against a tree, hiding herself as much in the shadows as possible. "You are always such a softie, especially during holidays!"

She shivered, the cold finally cutting through her body.

"Is so cold in Duckburg," she muttered. "How he can manage living here, I am having no idea… oh wait. I have idea, alright!" She glared at the mansion. "Is because he is rich! He can afford every luxury in world! And soon I will have that kind of wealth as well. While Scrooge is distracted by family and disgusting holiday cheer, I can slip number one dime away from him right under his nose!" She almost started her trademark evil laugh, but stopped herself quickly. No reason to make any excess noise that might give her away.

Instead, she rummaged through her handbag, pulled out her magic wand, and waved it around her head, transforming herself into a fly. With a satisfied buzz of her wings, she made her way to the front doors, easily slipping through the cracks.

"This is easy as pie," she chortled to herself, buzzing her way through the mansion. "Why didn't I think of it sooner?"

_Maybe because it's TOO easy._

She snorted, or snorted as much as she could with her current fly mouth. Oh, not that silly fabrication worming its way into her mind. Nothing was ever too easy. When people started thinking that, it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. No, it was easy enough to work, and it would!

"Now where is he keeping dime?" Magica the fly mused to herself. "Ah yes, I remember… the library! Unless he moved it since last time." She continued to buzz down the hallways, although with a sense of urgency that no normal fly would have.

"Uncle Scrooge! Uncle Scrooge! Can we open presents tonight, _please?"_

"Now boys, you know we have tae wait 'til tomorrow!"

"But I don't think I can wait that long!"

"Let us open just one!"

"We can wrap it up and open it again tomorrow if you'd like!"

"_Please, _Uncle Scrooge…"

"Oh dear, Webby darling, you too? Look, it's nearly your bedtime—the sooner you go tae sleep, the sooner Christmas morning will be here!"

"I don't want to go to sleep," said one of the nephews wistfully. Magica stopped flying and hovered by the doorway to the parlor to listen. "It's just so… _magical _tonight."

Magica stopped flying and landed on the doorframe, watching the scene unfold before her.

It should have nauseated her—this fake-seeming Christmas love and compassion, the reverence with which they treated this silly day, a day that was no different from any other day of the year! Just like Scrooge and his family to be sentimental…

…and Magica was jealous.

_No, no, not jealous. _She shook her head, trying to push the thought out of her head.

But why not? They looked so _happy. _The sentimentality that seemed so forced everywhere else Magica looked was real here, real and filling the room with warmth. They actually loved Christmas, they loved each other…

Flies can't close their eyes. But Magica wanted to right then.

She could never remember Christmas being like that in her family. It was simply another day of the year to her, another day of being ignored by her mother in favor over her genius brother Poe. Magica had turned to magic to get noticed, but still she was almost invisible. She had never really had much family—none that cared for her, at any rate. She had never known her father—probably some fly-by-night who abandoned her mother before the reaches of Magica's memory; she hadn't spoken to her mother in years and honestly didn't know if she was alive or dead, or really even _care_; and as for her brother, frankly, she knew perfectly well how to fix his current raven form, but she much preferred him trapped in a form in which he couldn't upstage her.

The triplets, finally talked into going to bed, all jumped up on the chair and gave their uncle a hug, although being careful to not tackle the little girl still perched on Scrooge's lap in the process.

Although still a fly, Magica felt a lump rise on her throat.

No one had ever hugged her, at least to her memory.

She suddenly shook her head again—good thing no one was looking at the door frame, because seeing a fly shake its head in frustration so many times would have looked just a little odd—and brought her mind back to the topic at hand. _I am growing soft, _she berated herself, _and that is a weakness! It is a weakness that Scrooge has, and it is how I will defeat him RIGHT NOW!_

She buzzed away from the door frame, the lump in her throat gone. In no time at all she made her way into the library.

There it was.

Scrooge's old Number One.

Unlocked, unguarded.

And Magica… was a fly.

"Drat," she muttered. This was one part of her plan that she had failed to completely think through. Getting _to _the dime was the easy part, but how was she going to carry it _out?_

Transforming herself back to her real form, she as quietly as possible lifted the lid off of the pillar which held up the dime on its velvet pillow. She was almost surprised that no alarms had gone off, that Scrooge hadn't found some technology that only let his fingerprints touch it. Thankfully, nothing happened. Biting her lip to keep herself from laughing evilly again (why was that desire so engrained in her brain?) she replaced the lid, setting the dime near the edge of the pillar. Then, she was back to fly mode. She hovered over the coin, her buzz off triumph dying away as she examined the size of the dime… or rather, her now diminished size.

As a fly, she was now smaller than the dime.

The triumphant buzz was now completely killed.

How could she pick it up in her present state?

She heard footsteps run by. Scrooge's nephews. They were running to their bedrooms presumably, to pretend to go to sleep. Smaller ones followed—the little girl. Panicking, and knowing who would be next, Magica abandoned the dime and flew to the window, trying to squeeze through the cracks.

And then, Scrooge himself walked by the room.

_Please, keep walking, _Magica prayed silently.

He stopped.

His eyes snapped to the dime out of its case.

"Now how did you get out?" he mused, picking it up and looking around suspiciously. Magica hardly dared to breathe.

He scanned the room, examining the window longer than anything else. Magica's insides were frozen. Her heart wasn't beating. Now she not only didn't dare breathe, she _couldn't _breathe.

Finally, he lifted the top and placed the dime back in its proper place, although he still glanced about the room with a frown on his face and his brows knitted. He left the room and Magica let out a choking breath of relief.

Once she managed to squeeze her way through the window, she reverted to her normal form and curled up despondently in the bushes.

She had failed again. True, this time it hadn't (either literally or figuratively) blown up in her face, but she was still right back where she started. No, wait, she was further down from where she started—she was sitting in the bushes during a freezing cold night, all alone and beaten. She was a failure. A complete and utter failure.

Her throat constricted again, but she managed to spit out a curse—oh yes, Magica, fine time to cry! Some fear-striking, villainous, future ruler of the world you are! You waste of space, you complete and total waste! Some ruler you'll make—you cry when you can't even get a dime!

She grimaced as she felt her body tense and reach the brink of bubbling over. It never did, never—Magica couldn't remember the last time she had really wept, the last time that she had really bawled and let all of her emotions out as if from a broken dam. They were clamped inside of her, and she couldn't have cried them out even if she wanted to—she had closed herself off too much.

"A-_hem."_

She jumped up and tried to swallow the lump in her throat as her mind went on the defensive. Scrooge McDuck, wearing a warm coat and scarf and glaring sternly at Magica, tapped his foot. "I had a feeling I'd find you here," he growled.

"Yes, so you caught me," Magica said, her voice hoarse from both anger and the unshed tears that were still caught in her throat. "I tried to steal dime, and I failed. You happy?"

Scrooge's eyes widened with surprise. "You're… giving up?"

"Why should I try again when I know I will fail?" Magica snapped. "So fine, I don't care, gloat at me like I know you want to—I would gloat at _you _if tables were turned!"

"You think I dinnae know that?" Scrooge's eyes began to narrow again, but didn't get far as he looked at the sorceress. "Aren't you cold?"

"No," Magica lied.

"What are you even doing oot on a night like this?"

"Trying to steel your dime, you loony!"

"I know that! But why _this _night? It's Christmas Eve, for goodness sake!"

"Of course," growled Magica. "Is Christmas Eve, and is time when sentimental fools like you are too busy spending time with family to pay attention to their other belongings!"

Scrooge remained silent for a few moments, giving Magica a very strange look. It wasn't the normal anger that she was used to seeing from him, and it was perplexing her.

"So what do ye do on Christmas when ye _aren't _stealing dimes?" Scrooge finally asked.

"I _plot _to steal dimes," said Magica.

"And… that's it?"

"That is it! What, do you think I treat the twenty-fifth of December as some day different somehow than any other day?"

"Well, you're right about one thing," said Scrooge, to Magica's surprise not getting defensive over Christmas's sake. "It would be just a normal day, if we didnae put so much emphasis on it—"

"Then why do you care?" Magica shrieked. "You have everything you want! You do not need a day as an excuse to be happy! Anyone even half as rich as you could buy anything they ever wanted!"

"And you think that you can put a monetary value on happiness?" Scrooge asked, his voice rising with irritation.

"Oh, I know what you are wanting to say, so just shut it!" Magica said. "You are going to feed me that lie that money can't buy happiness. I know is lie, and so do you, otherwise why would money be so important to you?"

"I wasn't going tae say that," said Scrooge. He snorted. "Money _is _important, and can certainly help along the way to happiness! But Magica… it can't _start _happiness. You have tae have that from the get-go. And every Christmas I'm reminded of where my true happiness stems—from my family. Without them, my wealth and power would mean nothing."

"Shut up," growled Magica. "I hate this foolish sentimentality. You are soft-hearted and a goon!"

"That dime won't make you happy like you think it will," said Scrooge. He shook his head sadly.

"I'll be happier than I am now!" cried Magica. "There's nowhere to go but up! You'll see! I'll prove you wrong!"

Scrooge held the edge of his scarf in his hands, stroking it and examining it with soft, thoughtful eyes. Magica had always, to put it gently, frustrated and enraged him. It wasn't so much that she wanted to steal that dime—it was more that she expected to gain wealth and power by theft, and without any hard work at all. If she wanted prestige that badly, she'd have to work hard for it like _he _did, earn it and learn to appreciate money's _true _value.

She was bitter. Angry. Confused. And, Scrooge noted, alone.

"Don't you have any family tae spend Christmas with?" he asked softly, not looking up.

"No—none that I care to ever see again, anyway," Magica huffed. "I don't need family to help me get what I want. All I need is that stupid dime of yours!"

"You admit it's stupid," said Scrooge, looking at her, "and yet you're still obsessed!" He wanted to be mad at her, and part of him was, if only to not break tradition. But there was another emotion overwhelming him, one that he never thought he'd feel on Magica's behalf.

She was piteous. Pitiful too, yes, always had been. But now the real difference between the two so similar words was making itself clear in Scrooge's mind. He had always found her pitiful, but only now did he believe she was truly to be pitied.

She couldn't know anything other than the life she was leading now.

"I don't care what you say… you look cold," he suddenly said, unwrapping his scarf and handing it to Magica.

Magica pushed it away contemptuously. "You pitiful little worm, I would never accept any false charity from you!"

Scrooge shrugged, wrapping the scarf back around his neck. "You're right, Magica, I _am _pitiful… I am full of pity. I pity you."

"I don't need your pity," snapped Magica.

"I know," sighed Scrooge. "All you need is my dime, right?"

"Right! And I will get it some day, when you are least expecting it!"

Scrooge shrugged. "You've tried before and failed, although who knows? Maybe someday you _will _succeed. It took me years tae even _start _my fortune, let alone build it. But I was happy _before_ I was rich. Being rich doesnae make one happy. It simply can help increase the happiness one already has. My dime might make you rich, Magica… but it will never make you happy."

He turned and started walking back to his mansion.

Magica stared incredulously at him, seething with rage at his words. Rage because she knew he was probably right. He knew more than anyone else in the world just what money can and cannot do.

And he was happy. She knew what it was like to be happy, but hers was always fleeting. Her life itself was one disappointment and tragedy after another. But Scrooge's life was generally… _happy._

"Merry Christmas, Scrooge," she murmured.

Scrooge spun around and stared—now it was _his _turn to adopt the incredulous look. But the look didn't last long. As his eyes still rested on her downcast ones, he felt the sting of a bitter victory settle in his stomach. He was sure now that what he suspected was true—Magica really didn't want wealth or power at all. She just wanted to be happy, and she felt that wealth and power was a stepping-stone to that happiness.

"Merry Christmas, Magica," he said, reaching over and touching her cold hand. Magica looked up with surprised eyes. Scrooge smiled at her, a genuine smile, and turned around again, heading back to the mansion.

Magica's widened eyes, staring at the hand that Scrooge had touched so gently and tenderly, soon narrowed with disgust, and finally, anger.

"_HOW DARE YOU TOUCH ME, SCROOGE MCDUCK?!"_

She heard the door close. Not slam. But close with firmness and finality.

"I am not moved by your act of kindness!" she hollered. "You will tremble at my might when I have your old number one! Tomorrow, when you least expect it, I will come and take back what will give me all the power—and yes, happiness!—in the world!"

The lights in the mansion turned off, all but the Christmas tree, that stood as a colorful beacon in the large, warm house.

Magica felt her stomach knot up.

"…the day _after _tomorrow."


End file.
